


Jagged Edges

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Jagged Edges [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Caning, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Nonsexual Dom/sub, collect the set, eight tons of emotional baggage, one of these days I will write Zevran as someone who knows how to deal with his feelings, today is not that day and this is not that story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zevran comes to Skyhold and tries to figure out which is worse: all the things that have changed in ten years, or all the things that are still the same.</p><p>ETA: <a href="http://shire-kaiju.tumblr.com/post/144388349692/i-finally-got-around-to-reading-jagged-edges-by">Look!</a> Now with art that makes me want to cry, because oh god, I really was cruel to Alistair, wasn't I? But he gets a hopeful ending, at least!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jagged Edges

**Author's Note:**

> The story still ends,  
> love.  
> The story ends, for one of us  
> all that fire snuffed out  
> all the words stolen  
> that could never be said.  
> The story still ends,  
> jagged edges sitting flush  
> with the smooth curve  
> of a pumping heart.  
> The story still ends-  
> but oh, oh.  
> How I love you.
> 
> ["freefall is all that I know"](http://heronfem.tumblr.com/post/142333873668/the-story-still-ends-love-the-story-ends-for)  
> *********************************************************
> 
> So this is a bit spoilery for the story but I can't bring myself to leave it off. Tagging was a giant headache, and this note is my compromise. Imagine if the Warden went into the Fade with Hawke and the Inquisitor. Yes, that's going where you think it's going, but if I did my job, you'll be glad when it happens. If you prefer the Warden be heroic, this is not the story for you.
> 
> Also...M rating isn't really for sex here, though there is some.

The message is short, written in a hand Zevran never thought he would see again: _"I may have found something you're looking for."_ Below the words, someone has drawn a griffon, highly stylized and no bigger than the ball of his thumb.

The message isn't signed, but then, it doesn't need to be, not when the messenger who brought it wore the colors of the newly-formed "Inquisition" that's kept the rumor mill so busy lately. A messenger who appeared out of the market crowd to place this slip of paper on the table in front of Zevran before disappearing with impressive speed.

Zevran folds the paper in half and tucks it inside his shirt, then picks up his glass of wine as if nothing has happened. He sips slowly, leaning back in his chair to watch the swirl of lace and masks and gossip that is Val Royeaux in the spring. It's a beautiful place, if not quite so beautiful as Antiva City, and they know the difference between bad wines and good. This isn't the first time he's come this way, nor will it be the last.

He holds to the mundane, to the here-and-now, letting it act as a wall against everything else that tiny scrap of paper has stirred up. In the middle of an Orlesian café is hardly the time to let his thoughts wander. And in the middle of a job? Even worse.

###

Crow training gets him through the afternoon and the target's death, but when it's done and he's perched high on a roof watching the sun sink low, all the memories come back to him. The brick chimney at his back is warm and rough, the breeze cool up here where nothing blocks it, and the view simply incredible, the roofs of Val Royeaux stretching out below him like a fine painting.

He knew a man, once, who liked fine paintings, who collected them despite living out of a pack that sometimes didn't have enough food for his next meal. There was a certain charming impracticality in someone who scorned the weight of an additional bedroll but who would find a way to carry a framed stretch of canvas. None of those paintings were bigger than Zevran's two hands side-by-side, and yet, they were still paintings. Not food, not clothes, not weapons.

Those are memories Zevran doesn't mind re-visiting, but once he's started down that path, other memories inevitably follow. He knew a man who liked fine paintings, and a boy with more devotion than sense, and a black-haired witch with a tongue that burned like acid, the sting lingering long after her words were said. He knew a dwarf who drank too much, and an old woman who meddled too much, and a red-haired bard who loved too much, until life burned all the softness from her. He knew a man who was once Fereldan's king in everything but name, and he knew a Warden who became a Hero.

Zevran is too much a Crow to touch the earring that still dangles from his left ear, no matter how much his fingers ache to rub over the smooth curves. That urge strikes him from time to time, but he's grown accustomed to ignoring it, touching the earring only on the rare occasion when he has to remove it for a job. He's always aware of it, though, and he always keeps it close.

In all the years he's had it, he's only tried to give it away once.

###

Skyhold is as ridiculous as its name made it sound, an enormous castle so deep in the Frostbacks that its walls are more a statement than an actual necessity. Who would attack it? Oh, Zevran is sure many people _want_ to, but who could get an army this far into the mountains? Who could maintain the discipline, not to mention the supply lines, to bring several thousand people into a valley where spring means the water in the pitcher only freezes at night?

Who except Andraste's Herald? Unless Andraste has left the world as far behind as the Chantry's Maker, and these people follow nothing more than a piece of the Fade, burned into mortal flesh.

Zevran has his opinions, but they're idle ones, without weight. It doesn't matter whether the Inquisition is blessed by a god Zevran doesn't believe in, or whether its leader is delusional, or whether its leader is entirely sane but deluding everyone who gathers in this drafty wreck of a castle that isn't nearly as wrecked as it should be. Zevran is here for one thing, and one thing only.

No matter how pointless this is, as his better judgment reminds him constantly, in the voices of every Crow master who ever taught him. What does he want, after all this time? What is there to say, ten years later?

###

He doesn't start with the Inquisitor, or with the rubble-strewn hall that doesn't deserve to be called great. Perhaps when the repairs are finished it will inspire awe in every visitor who enters, but right now, all it inspires in Zevran is a vision of twisted ankles and falling masonry.

Instead of seeking out Skyhold's newest owner, he drifts through its public spaces, gathering as much information as he can before he gives anything away. No doubt she knows he's here, but that doesn't mean he has to go to her before he's ready. As ready as he can be, though the meeting with her isn't the one tying him in knots.

All his attempts at subtlety and discretion are blown apart as he's passing the stables, his attention fixed on the bizarre abomination of a horse taking up the stall closest to the door. He's aware of the people around him, but none of them are close enough to be a threat, and so he pays them no mind while he tries to decide if that truly is a sword driven up through the horse's head.

"Zevran!"

The voice is as familiar as the handwriting on the note that brought him here, and just as unexpected. He turns, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth already curving in a smile as he searches the faces around him for the source of that voice. Alistair was as different from him as it was possible to be, but Zevran grew rather fond of him before they parted ways. It's a pleasant surprise to know that the Calling hasn't claimed him yet.

"Zevran!" Alistair says again from inside the stables, and Zevran barely keeps his smile in place as shock hits him with all the force of a mage's lightning strike.

"Alistair?" Holding on to his smile is the best he can do. He can't make the name not a question, because surely this stranger isn't the same person he knew ten years ago. A decade is a long time, and the life of a wandering swordsman hard, but this...

This can't be Alistair, this man with his lined face and tired eyes and wasted body. Yes, he carries a sword, but his hands shake in a way that bodes ill for him if he ever needs to draw it, and his arms are so thin Zevran wonders if he could swing it more than twice.

"It's so good to see you!" the stranger says in Alistair's voice, beaming as his hand comes out to grip Zevran's.

It's the smile that makes Zevran's stomach drop, because it's Alistair's every bit as much as the voice. Which means that this stranger who looks like life has dealt him the worst kind of luck is the same man Zevran once considered as much mabari as human, as much awkward puppy as deadly fighter.

"Alistair," Zevran says weakly, too stunned to return the embrace that Alistair pulls him into. The tremor that was in Alistair's hands runs through his whole body, as if every one of his muscles is a moment away from failure.

Alistair steps back fast, looking embarrassed, and Zevran feels that stomach-dropping jolt again. The expression is too familiar on this unfamiliar face. "Sorry," Alistair says, tucking his thumbs in his belt. "I suppose that was a bit much."

"No, no!" Zevran says. His wits are completely scattered, but he has plenty of practice in pretending otherwise. "Only a surprise, to see you again after so long. And here, of all places!"

Alistair grins and waves a hand back toward the shadows inside the stables, where he'd been standing when Zevran first spotted him. "Oh, you know me and stables. We go back a long way."

Zevran laughs, hoping it doesn't sound too strangled. Every word out of Alistair's mouth is painful to him, as he tries to force his mind to accept what the last decade has done. "I was referring to Skyhold, my friend," he says, clapping Alistair on the back. "I am aware of your attachment to stables, but Skyhold's was not the one where I expected to find you."

"Were you looking for me?" Alistair asks. The smile is fainter, gone crooked.

"Not really," Zevran admits. "But had I been, this would not have been my first thought. What brings you here?"

Even that last hint of Alistair's smile disappears, the tired stranger once again replacing the boy Zevran knew. "A job," Alistair says with a shrug. "A place like this needs soldiers."

Privately, Zevran thinks the Inquisition's army is hard-pressed indeed if it's accepting a man who doesn't appear capable of holding a shield, but he says lightly, "That it does, my friend, especially when its walls are, shall we say, uninspiring."

Alistair smiles again, that quick, easy smile Zevran remembers from so many nights around the campfire. "That's why they've got us. Well, us and the army, but that's still mostly...ummm...well, they're working on it. Takes a while to train soldiers, right?"

Zevran blinks. "Are you not part of the army, then?"

"What? Oh!" Alistair turns, drawing Zevran with him so they're looking down the length of Skyhold's courtyard. At the far end, a qunari is bent over talking to a blond man whose fur coat appears to be trying to swallow him whole. "We're mercenaries. Bull's Chargers."

That seems even less probable, that any group of mercenaries would hire a man so clearly incapable of wielding any kind of weapon.

While Zevran is still considering his response, Alistair goes on, slowly, as if the words are being pulled from him against his will. "I joined about six months ago. I was...sick a while, before that. Still getting better."

There's more to the story, those words the top inch of a sword still mostly sheathed, threat rather than actual danger. Curious, Zevran opens his mouth to ask, then closes it again. Does he need the details, when the result is before him? The wasted state of Alistair's body could be the result of some lingering illness, but the look in his eyes when he forgets to smile is more than that.

"You should come by the tavern tonight," Alistair says, oblivious. "Get drinks with us, meet some of the Chargers. And we could...catch up, maybe?"

The hopeful-puppy look he gives Zevran is a little too reminiscent of his younger self, and Zevran finds himself agreeing, though he's becoming more sure by the moment that he doesn't want to know what Alistair has been doing in the decade since they parted ways.

###

Leliana's rookery is about what Zevran expected, noisy and busy and smelling of bird shit. Leliana herself is also what he expected, if not what he'd hoped for: cool and distant and calculating, everything a spymaster should be.

The Crow masters would approve of her. Zevran thinks he prefers Sister Leliana to Sister Nightingale.

Sister Nightingale is who he has, however, and the old Leliana is not completely gone. She smiles when she sees him, and embraces him briefly. "It's good to see you well," she says, Orlais still heavy in her voice.

"It's good to be well," he says with a smirk. He can't quite bring himself to return the compliment, though certainly she's well in body.

Her smile, slightly superior, suggests she knows exactly what's going through his head. "You've seen Alistair?" she asks, as if she doesn't already know the answer.

"We talked a little while." There's no need to say how hard those few moments were. He suspects Leliana suffered the same shock, even if she would deny it now. "Almost like old times, yes?"

"Almost," she agrees. She pauses, and her gaze is so suddenly sharp, Zevran braces internally. "Morrigan is here, too, you know. With her son."

"Oh, so she's well?" Zevran asks, as if the words aren't a punch in the gut. "Both of them?"

Leliana looks briefly disappointed, and Zevran grants himself a point as she says, "The Orlesian court suited her rather better than I would have expected. She served as the empress's advisor for a time."

That image is genuinely amusing: an apostate out of the Korcari Wilds standing beside Empress Celene while a hundred Orlesian nobles grind their teeth behind their golden masks.

"And now she serves the Inquisition," he says, half a question.

"For the moment," Leliana says. "She spends most of her days in the garden, if you care to speak with her."

He doesn't, and he does. In fact, there's only one person in Skyhold he's more ambivalent about meeting again.

They talk of trivialities for a while, small nothings that allow them to spar verbally without truly testing each other. It's as strange-familiar as Alistair's face, and by the time Zevran descends the stairs, the combination has him deeply unsettled. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitates, pretending to admire the mural as he tries to find his balance and decide which way to go next.

He isn't as successful on the first part as he could wish, but in the end, he chooses the garden.

###

By now he's growing accustomed to the weird shock as memory and reality collide, and though Morrigan is as much a surprise as Alistair or Leliana, it's a more pleasant one.

Which is a surprise of its own, because very little of Morrigan was pleasant a decade ago. She's softer now, as if she's taken up some of the gentleness Leliana left behind, without losing her sharp wit, and when she smiles at her son, Zevran finds that the hatred he carried for so long vanished somewhere in the intervening years.

They talk longer than Zevran would have expected, the kind of easy exchange they never had before. He laughs more than he has in a long time, and finds ways to draw the conversation out when he could cut it short.

The shadows are long when she says, "You should go see him."

No need to ask who she's referring to, and all Zevran's emotions twist into a tangled knot again. "I know," he says. "Leliana tells me he likes to walk the wall."

"During the day," Morrigan says. "You'll have better luck in the tavern, now."

The tavern. "Then I might have a drink with Alistair after."

Morrigan makes an odd face, like she's debating whether to speak, and Zevran marvels again at how much she's changed. There was a time she wouldn't have even considered whether to say whatever was on her mind.

Zevran cocks an eyebrow at her, too curious not to, and she says at last, "He was infatuated with you, you know." When Zevran only looks puzzled, she adds, "Alistair."

"Was he?" Zevran asks, bemused. "I never noticed."

She shrugs. "Your attention was elsewhere. But he used to watch you with those big puppy eyes. Like a mabari, begging to have its stomach rubbed." A half smile curls the corner of her mouth. "At the time, it made me ill. I thought him quite pathetic."

Zevran shakes his head, trying and failing to reconcile this with his own memories. True, Alistair was often at his elbow, but no more so than Leliana. The three of them had spent a lot of time together, trailing after-

"He should have asked you," Morrigan says quietly. Her eyes are on Kieran, but Zevran knows she isn't talking about him, or about Alistair.

"It was his decision to make," Zevran says, even as all the warmth seeps out of him. The new rapport between them strains under the weight of the old anger, however misplaced.

"Not entirely," Morrigan says. "You had the right to know, before it happened."

"That was never the way things were between us." Words he's said to himself a thousand times. She doesn't look any more convinced than he feels. "We were both always free to take other lovers."

"A casual fuck is different than making a child," she says.

"A child that saved his life," Zevran says with all the calm his Crow training can grant him.

Morrigan tips her hand in his direction, conceding the argument. "As you wish."

Zevran starts to turn away, then stops. Without looking back at her, he asks, "Do you speak with him often?"

"No," she says calmly. "I had everything I wanted from him nine years ago."

Zevran wishes he could say the same.

###

After Alistair, after Leliana, after Morrigan, Zevran is braced for the shock of seeing a familiar face after everything ten years can do to a man, but this time, it's as if he's traveled back in time. Oh, there are a few new lines and the hair is starting to go grey, but the smile hasn't changed a bit.

Neither has anything else, it turns out, and Zevran hates himself for expecting otherwise even as he lets himself be dragged back into the old patterns. He is petted and ignored in equal measure, the changes sudden and inexplicable. One moment an arm is around his shoulders, holding him close, the next he might as well not exist, jokes that make the rest of the table laugh ignored by the one person he most wants to amuse. Zevran will turn away, strike up a conversation with someone else, try to pretend most of his attention isn't elsewhere, until suddenly there's a hand on his knee, or the back of his neck, pulling him into another embrace.

Alistair is there, and Zevran curses Morrigan for making him aware of every time their eyes meet. Ten years is a long time to pine for someone, and Alistair doesn't seem to treat him any different than the others at the table, but it's impossible not to hear her voice occasionally.

_"He was infatuated with you, you know."_

Fuck her, and fuck her observations, true or not.

As the night wears on, Hawke joins them, and remembers Zevran from their brief meeting in Kirkwall. By the smile he gets, Zevran knows exactly how well he is remembered, and he smiles back, flirting thoughtlessly.

The hand on the back of his neck tightens, demanding his attention, and this time, it doesn't move away again.

###

Later, in the privacy of his room, Zevran allows himself to be undressed and led to bed. The night is like a hundred others he remembers: skilled hands on his body and a warm voice murmuring how beautiful he is, how amazing, how wonderful it is to be with him again after all these years.

 _Then why did I have to wait for Leliana to tell me where to find you?_ he thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he lets himself drown in that voice and those hands, the way he has on a hundred other nights.

The morning is like a hundred others, too: he wakes alone, dresses alone, eats breakfast very much not alone but also not with the person he most wants to be with.

He is all but ignored until nightfall and a knock on his door. He could ignore it in turn, but he never has, and he doesn't think he ever will.

That this is all entirely familiar is as much comfort as pain.

###

He seeks out Alistair the next day, mostly to avoid thinking about the way the old habits chafe even as he settles into them, like shoes that fit once, that he wants to fit now, but that persist in rubbing uncomfortably. It doesn't seem to matter how much he wants to return to the thoughtless devotion of a decade ago. There was a certainty there, a calm born of knowing exactly how the relationship would play out, but now that same certainty irritates a small but growing part of him.

So he goes looking for a distraction, and finds Alistair in the stables feeding apples to the horses as he murmurs nonsense to them. Watching him from the shadows for a moment, Zevran notices that his hands don't appear to be shaking today. He wonders how sick Alistair was, and how sick he still is.

Setting those thoughts aside, Zevran steps forward and calls out a greeting. He came in search of a pleasant distraction, not something else to worry about.

Alistair looks up and smiles in welcome. "Did you want a ride?" he asks, waving a hand at the horses.

Zevran smirks, Alistair blushes, and it's as much a reminder of old times as anything that happened last night. Somehow, though, this soothes raw nerves rather than scraping over them.

"That's not what I meant," Alistair says hastily. Then he grins a little sheepishly. "But you knew that."

"Possibly," Zevran allows, letting his smirk turn into a real smile. "And no, I did not come looking for a ride. I was told I might find you here, though I rather thought the kennels would suit you better."

Alistair smiles at the old joke, as if it wasn't a sure way to make him sputter ten years ago. "I like the kennels better," he admits, "but there's a Warden with the Inquisition, who sleeps in the stable loft."

"A Warden?" Zevran asks, surprised. He'd thought all of them gone, but then, he knows of at least two who didn't disappear with the rest. Why shouldn't there be a third?

"I wanted to talk to him," Alistair says, then stumbles as the horse beside him shoves its head against his chest in search of another apple. "Greedy thing," he murmurs at it, scratching under its forelock. Without looking away from the horse, he says to Zevran, "I wanted to talk to him, see if he knew anything about the others, but he's never around when I come looking for him."

"Well," Zevran says, spreading his arms wide. "Your Warden may be missing, but I am here, and I am ever so much more entertaining. Let me buy you a drink, and we can talk of your many exciting travels since we parted company."

Ten years ago, Alistair's face was always painfully easy to read, every thought and emotion painted in bright colors for anyone to see. Somewhere between then and now, he learned better, and his face closes off, hiding whatever he's feeling even if he has no skill at hiding the fact that he is hiding something.

Curious and a little taken aback, Zevran says, "Or I can tell you improbable tales of my own adventures, if you prefer."

Alistair laughs, shoulders relaxing. "I'd like that. But the tavern is always so crowded." He makes a face, a little too forced. "I found a spot up on the wall, out of the way a bit. We could sit there and talk, if you wanted."

The last part is almost a question, and Zevran makes sure to smile broadly at him. "A private moment, just the two of us? How can I refuse?"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he remembers again what Morrigan had said. Alistair blushes, but that doesn't have to mean anything other than that Zevran has surprised him.

"You never change, do you?" Alistair asks.

That stings, even though it shouldn't. Zevran brushes it away without losing his own smile. "Can anyone improve upon perfection?" he asks, bowing flamboyantly. "Change is for lesser mortals than myself."

It gets him a laugh, and that soothes most of the ache, if not quite all of it.

###

They pass the better part of the afternoon together, far longer than Zevran would have thought would be possible, much less pleasant. It's more than pleasant, though, and they're in no danger of running low on things to talk about when a very familiar hand curls possessively around the back of Zevran's neck, and a familiar voice says, "I was wondering where you'd got off to. It's getting late."

About to protest that it's no such thing, Zevran looks around and realizes with a shock that the shadows have grown long. He glances at Alistair, intending to share a joke at their own expense over it, but the words stick in his throat when he sees Alistair's face. His mouth is a thin line, and there's an angry light in his eyes Zevran has only seen once before as he says tightly, "Warden."

"Alistair." A snort of amusement, vaguely superior. "Are you really still angry with me, ten years later? When you're the one who walked out on me?"

The air is suddenly as tense as it was on that day ten years ago, sharp with the promise of a fight, and Zevran says hastily, "You were looking for me?"

"I was." The hand on the back of his neck squeezes gently, pulling him slightly off balance, and it's easier to move with the pressure than fight against it. Habits. "But here you are, and I think I hear supper calling my name."

It's not a question or an order, and yet, Zevran doesn't think before moving to follow him. A few steps away, he pauses to look back at Alistair, who gives him a jerky wave and a tight smile, and Zevran wants to say something.

He doesn't know what, though, and so he says nothing.

###

Three nights later, Zevran lies awake until dawn, waiting for a knock that never comes. When he can no longer pretend it isn't morning, he gets up and goes in search of answers.

Leliana gives him a look that's almost pitying when he climbs up to the rookery to ask her. "They left yesterday morning," she says. "Headed for the Western Approach."

The army will follow in short order, he's told, as if an assassin has any place in a shield wall. He leaves her to her work and tries not to feel as if he's retreating from her pity.

Left behind and with no tasks to occupy his time, he wanders aimlessly for a while before he fetches up against the fence that surrounds the practice ring. The Iron Bull occupies it in every sense of the word, taking all comers with a laugh and a challenge, until finally one of the soldiers manages to take him down.

When the soldier lifts off his helmet, Zevran's thoughts hitch, as they have so often since he came to Skyhold. He's seen the Inquisition's commander in the tavern a few times, and while the man's face had rung a faint bell, Zevran's mind had been on other things. Now, though...

Now his hair is matted to his head, and there are streaks of dirt on his face, and his eyes are still a little wild from the fight, and Zevran _knows_ him. Another face from a decade ago, and why does the past seem so determined to haunt him now, when it's left him in peace for so many years?

The last of the wildness fades from Cullen's face, turning into a smile as the Iron Bull claps him on the shoulder. That friendly slap turns into a one-armed hug as they talk over the fight for the benefit of the gathered soldiers, the Iron Bull's other arm slung around his lieutenant in almost the same way.

Almost the same, but not quite.

Zevran has no interest in the technique for wielding an axe that weighs more than he does, but he's more than interested in the secrets whispering between Cullen and the Iron Bull. Zevran has heard no rumors about them, but the truth of it is there, for someone who's made it his life's work to find ways to exploit other people's weaknesses.

The Iron Bull's hand grips the back of Cullen's neck, and Zevran feels a ghost of that touch on his own skin, though the hand he's imagining isn't nearly as large as a qunari's. Turning away, he tries to shake off the feeling, but it lingers for a long time.

###

Later in the day, some perverse impulse drives him to seek Cullen out. Not that the Inquisition's commander is a hard man to find, not when he apparently only leaves his office for the practice ring or the war table.

His office is exactly where Zevran finds him. Cullen is bent over his desk, pen moving quickly as he scratches out a reply to a letter, frowning at the paper as if it's offended him. His first glance is quick, perfunctory, then his head snaps up as if jerked back by the hair.

"I know you," Cullen breathes. His hand is frozen in place as he stares at Zevran, his pen no doubt leaving a large ink stain on his letter.

"You were at Kinloch Hold," Zevran says, stepping into the office to allow the door to close.

There's horror mixed in with the recognition now, and shame. "I was," Cullen says hoarsely. "That was...a long time ago."

Not long enough, judging by the expression on Cullen's face. "Ten years," Zevran says, neither agreement nor argument.

"Ten years." The words are barely loud enough for Zevran to hear. "I never thought to see you again."

Wary now, Zevran says only, "Nor I, you."

Cullen recalls himself then, glancing down at his paper and the ink spreading across it. He makes a face and sets down his pen, moving the ruined page to the side where it won't make a mess before it dries. The routine movements soothe him, and when he looks back up at Zevran, his face is calmer.

"I never had a chance to thank you," he says quietly.

They aren't the words Zevran expected. "Thank me?"

"Any of you. All of you. At the time, I was too...I was blinded by my pain, and ungrateful. It took me years to realize that, but I owed all of you better than what I gave."

"We saw what happened there," Zevran says, still a little wary. "We understood. All of us."

Cullen's mouth quirks, the unscarred corner of his mouth turning up. "The Hero of Ferelden," he says, in a tone Zevran can't interpret. "People call him that now, and of course they mean the Blight, but it was...is...rather more personal for me. I don't know if you can understand that."

No, ten years isn't nearly long enough. Zevran remembers lying on the ground after a failed ambush, waiting for the death blow that never came. He remembers three nights ago, strong arms wrapped tight around him, a voice whispering promises no one ever gave to Crows, that they taught him never to expect or look for.

"I was angry for a long time," Cullen says quietly. "Angry at _him_ , for not purging Kinloch Hold the way I felt he should. And by the time I was done being angry, of course he had disappeared. So I never had the chance to give him the thanks he deserved. To give any of you the thanks you deserved."

There's a long silence, long enough that Cullen reaches up to rub the back of his neck. Zevran wonders if that habit predates his relationship with the Iron Bull, if the Iron Bull puts his hand there because it's what Cullen does when he's nervous, or if Cullen does it when he's nervous to remind himself of the Iron Bull's touch.

"I suppose that must seem rather odd to you," Cullen says, when the silence has gone too long.

"No," Zevran says quietly. His fingers twitch, wanting to touch the ring hanging from his ear, but he stills them before the movement can really begin. All his skill with words has abandoned him, so he shrugs, and smiles, and says, "You are not the only one he saved."

###

Zevran spends the evening in the tavern with the Chargers, curious to know more about the Iron Bull, but the first thing he learns is that Ben-Hassrath training is every bit as good as Crow training. There's little to be learned from the Iron Bull except what he allows people to know, and Zevran never had much interest in that kind of information. He considers trying to find out more in the ways he knows best, but though the Iron Bull flirts with everyone else in the room, the look he gives Zevran is flatly disinterested.

Alistair, on the other hand, is glad to sit beside him, to lean in close as the tavern grows crowded, and once again Zevran curses Morrigan for putting her suspicion into his head. Now that he's aware of it, he can see it plainly, and wonder how he ever missed it in the first place. It's a subtle thing now, but at twenty, Alistair was never subtle about anything.

Morrigan was right about other things, too, though. Zevran's attention had definitely been elsewhere.

It still is, in many ways, but it's hard not to be drawn in by Alistair's admiring looks, by the tentative way he lets his shoulder rest against Zevran's. Even if awkwardness isn't usually something Zevran finds endearing, he leans in anyway, wanting the contact as much as the promise of sex.

The Iron Bull watches them, his disapproval plain enough to Zevran even if everyone else seems to miss it. Alistair certainly doesn't notice, and when he very carefully floats the suggestion that they could move somewhere quieter, Zevran isn't above a brief smirk in the Iron Bull's direction. The only one who seems to catch the exchange is the Chargers' second in command, and he contents himself with nothing more than a brief upward flick of his eyebrows.

Outside the tavern, Alistair leads the way up the stairs to the wall and the place they sat a few days previously. Only when Alistair sits with his legs hanging over the side does Zevran realize with exasperated amusement that Alistair's suggestion that they go somewhere they can talk was, in fact, a suggestion that they go somewhere and talk.

Still, they're here, and it's a nice night, so Zevran shrugs internally and sits beside him, close enough their bodies touch all down one side. It sends a pleasant thrill through him, and he likes the way it makes Alistair swallow hard.

But what Alistair says is, "I wasn't sick."

Unsure where he's going, Zevran tries a careful, "Oh?"

"I lied to you, before," Alistair says, looking down at his feet and the ground far below them. "When I told you I'd been sick for a while."

Dread is starting to gather in the pit of Zevran's stomach. "The Calling?" he asks.

Alistair hesitates, and Zevran can see him considering a lie before he says, "No, not the Calling."

His expression is not reassuring, and Zevran has to force his muscles to relax.

The story that comes out in halting sentences is better than learning that Alistair is about to succumb to the Calling, but not by much. When Alistair stormed out of the Landsmeet, everyone expected him to be waiting for them at Eamon's estate, or to return there soon enough. As the days passed, that became less likely, until thoughts of Alistair were set aside in favor of planning for the oncoming Horde. And once the archdemon was defeated, when it was clear he truly wasn't coming back, it had been too late to chase after him.

Zevran could have found him, if he'd thought to look, but his attention had, once again, been elsewhere, and now he's sick at the thought of what he might have prevented. Though the story is hardly believable: the idea of Alistair drunk for an entire week, much less for the better part of a decade, sounds like a bard's satire rather than anything real. If it were anyone but Alistair telling him this, Zevran would laugh and suggest they stick to more plausible lies in the future.

He doesn't feel much like laughing now.

Alistair gives few details, painting the story of his life for the last ten years in a handful of broad strokes, but Zevran doesn't need more. He's seen what people will do for a drink once it becomes their whole life, and he's watched that slow erosion of principle until everything else is gone. The thought of Alistair on his knees in some piss-stinking alley...

...isn't anything Zevran wants to linger on, so he blocks it off, sets it aside in the same place he puts any emotion that doesn't serve his current purpose.

Better to direct the conversation elsewhere. "And the Chargers? How did you find such interesting friends?" He asks it with a grin, lest Alistair take it as the insult it isn't meant to be.

"It was a fight in a tavern," Alistair says with a laugh. "I could barely walk in a straight line, but I had a bottle in my hand when someone came up behind Krem, and...well...old habits, I guess." He mimes hitting someone with a bottle, smiling crookedly. "I think I was more surprised than anyone else."

"Perhaps not so surprised as the one who took a bottle to the head."

Alistair laughs again, sounding young and at ease and not at all like a man who just stumbled through a decade of drinking and living rough. "All right, maybe not that surprised. But after it was done, Bull invited me to join them." He straightens, pulling his shoulders back and dropping his voice deep in imitation of the Iron Bull. "'If that's how you fight drunk, I want to see you sober!'"

Zevran wonders privately how long the Iron Bull had to wait for that, then kicks himself for the thought. Alistair is clearly sober now, and has been for a while. His hands are even steady tonight, without the tremor Zevran noticed the first day.

"You look to be doing better," Zevran says, not sure if it's the right thing but needing to say something.

Alistair ducks his head. "Practice still wears me out," he admits. "I lost so much muscle, and it's slow to come back." He holds up a hand, tensing the muscles in his forearm to make it tremble for a moment. "I hate that, but it's getting better."

There's no mention of the six months between Alistair's meeting with the Chargers and now. Zevran is more than fine with that: he hasn't seen nearly as many people make the climb back out of the bottle as he's seen fall in, but he knows how messy and brutal it is. That Alistair is still standing is what matters.

And yet, he can't quite bring himself to leave that struggle unacknowledged.

"It's a hard thing," Zevran says, leaning against Alistair's shoulder. Carefully, so as not to over balance either of them, but hard enough to make it clear the movement is deliberate. "I haven't known many people capable of walking away, after the drink becomes their closest companion."

Alistair ducks his head again, but he seems pleased this time. "It...wasn't easy."

There's nothing Zevran can say to that, so he just rests his hand on the back of Alistair's neck. Though Zevran knows his fingers must be cold, Alistair doesn't flinch from the touch.

###

They end up in Alistair's room, which is barely large enough for bed, armor stand, and chest. It's certainly not large enough for all that plus two people who want to keep any sort of polite distance, but since distance isn't what either of them wants, that doesn't much matter.

Alistair's kisses show more enthusiasm than experience, but when he goes to his knees, his mouth on Zevran's cock is as skilled as anyone might wish. Zevran deliberately doesn't think about what that means, just lets himself drown in pure sensation. Later, he teases Alistair with his lips and his fingers until Alistair is begging, then sucks his cock until he spills in Zevran's mouth, body arching off the bed. Because isn't that the only thing that matters, that both of them find a release?

Zevran needs the answer to be yes, needs it the way he needs to breathe, and when Alistair is asleep, Zevran finds his clothes and dresses in silence. At the door, he hesitates, looking back at Alistair and wondering if that's how he himself looks when someone else is walking away.

Then he shoves that aside and slips out the door.

###

It's easy enough to avoid Alistair in the following days, with the army preparing to march on Adamant. They all have tasks that must be accomplished, and if there are times when they could have squeezed out a few moments together, Zevran somehow always finds something else that needs to be done immediately. He catches Alistair looking after him occasionally, face drawn in tight lines, but neither of them says anything.

Once they're on the move, it's even easier to keep some distance between them. Alistair stays with the Chargers, and Zevran stays close to the Inquisition's advisors, and there's no reason at all for Zevran to feel guilty about any of this.

###

They're less than halfway to Adamant when the Inquisitor's party rejoins them. It's late, everyone asleep except for the sentries at the perimeter, and Zevran wakes with a knife in his hand as the flap of his tent is opened by a shadow he would recognize anywhere.

"Zevran?" A voice he's been longing to hear, and yet, now that he has, he almost wishes he'd never heard it again.

"I am here," Zevran says, as if he'd be anywhere else. "You were successful, then?"

"Oh yes." The shadow slips into the tent, closing it back up before crawling across the ground to Zevran. "I missed you," he says, low and sincere.

Zevran says nothing, caught between conflicting emotions. Most of him is achingly glad they're together again, for however short a time, but deep in his chest, anger flares for the first time. More spark than bonfire, but it nestles there, sharp and painful.

###

The marks on his neck are obvious the next morning, purple-red against his skin, and of course that's the morning he's dragged along to visit the Chargers. Alistair's eyes linger on the bruises, those tight lines forming at the corners of his mouth before he turns away.

As they're settling around the Chargers' fire, the Iron Bull meets Zevran's eyes, and for a blink, his disdain is obvious. That Zevran knows he's been allowed to see it only makes it sting worse, but he doesn't let that show. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, showing off the marks as best he can without being obvious.

A hand closes around the back of his neck, familiar and possessive, and Zevran cocks an eyebrow at the Iron Bull. The look he gets back is politely blank, as if Zevran is no longer worthy even of disdain.

The spark in his chest burns brighter for a moment, anger looking for a target, before Zevran smothers it and lets the hand on his neck pull him closer.

###

The battle for Adamant is brutal and perfect, exactly what Zevran needs: a reason to cut and hurt and kill, to do what he was trained for, what he does best. His body hums with the thrill of it, with the pure physical joy of movement and the power that comes from dealing out death before they even know he's there. Demons fall to his knives as easily as men; he learned that during the Blight.

He's only a few hundred feet back from the Inquisitor's party when the archdemon appears, as beautiful and terrifying as the last one. The shock that runs through him is almost like lust, remembering that fight and the strain of pushing his body to the very limit of his skill, and he laughs as he takes a better grip on his knives.

Then the wall collapses, and everything inside Zevran collapses with it. The rift flares brightly as half a dozen bodies tumble into it and don't come out the other side.

He steps forward without realizing it, only to be pulled up short by a bruising grip on his arm. "Is he really worth that?" the Iron Bull asks, face impassive despite the way his shoulders heave from exertion.

Anger turns to rage, fed by shock and grief, and Zevran twists away. "Is that any concern of yours?" he snaps.

"Yes," the Iron Bull says, and for half a second, he looks exactly as angry about it as Zevran. He locks his expression down fast enough, but Zevran knows he wasn't supposed to see that.

Which is so startling it pulls him back from the edge better than any physical restraint. His chest still feels like someone ripped it open, but falling into the rift no longer holds the same appeal as it did a moment ago.

"He's with the Inquisitor," the Iron Bull says. "The anchor might be enough to get them back."

Zevran looks at the courtyard below, still swarming with demons and Grey Wardens, then back at the Iron Bull. "Then we should do our best to ensure they receive a pleasant welcome on their return, should we not?"

The only answer he gets is a smile, broad and full of teeth.

###

He slips into the shadows, letting the Iron Bull take the lead and the focus of every enemy they encounter. Not that Zevran can blame them for being distracted: a qunari reaver with an axe as tall as a man is a sight almost guaranteed to draw anyone's attention, at least until Zevran's knives ensure they're never distracted by anything ever again.

Rage and hope and fear make a nauseating combination, but Zevran turns them outward, lets them fuel his blows when he begins to tire. They run low on potions, and then they run out, and still there are more demons, more Grey Wardens, fighting them for every step toward the courtyard. Zevran's thigh aches from a sword blow he only mostly managed to dodge, and his throat burns from his gasping breaths, but he pushes forward.

If they can reach the courtyard, if they can clear it, then everything will be fine. The rift will open, and this will be a story to tell in the tavern, with a drink in front of him while a warm hand curls tight around the back of his neck.

Every step is a victory, every body he passes one fewer enemy he has to kill to make everything right again. Because he will make everything right, the only way he can, and if that means personally slitting every throat in Adamant, so be it. He has good company in the Iron Bull, and between them, Zevran knows they can win this fight, because believing anything else means walking back up the stairs they just cleared to see what happens if he falls into the rift.

They're five steps from the courtyard when the Inquisition's soldiers meet up with them, the remainder of the Inquisitor's inner circle among them. Hope overtakes fear, and Zevran can feel it rushing through him. The courtyard is clear, or nearly so, and the rift is flaring up again, blinding green light washing over them as bodies tumble out of the rift almost as fast as they tumbled in.

Zevran counts them, eyes flicking over faces he doesn't care about, waiting for the one he knows will be next...

Until there is no next, and the rift is closed, and the Inquisitor is looking at him with an expression that's equal parts guilt and pity.

###

With the Grey Wardens defeated, Adamant proves to be the perfect place for restless wandering. The Inquisition's soldiers are occupied cleaning up the bodies that haven't melted into black smears on the ground, and everyone else is gathered around to hear the story of what happened in the Fade.

Zevran already knows the only detail that matters to him, so he leaves them to it.

He paces the ruins of Adamant's walls, climbing over rubble when it blocks his path rather than turning around, as if he's working his way toward an actual destination instead of moving simply because he can't be still. His thoughts are scattered, his emotions so tangled he can barely sort them out, much less deal with them.

The worst of it is the thin thread of triumph winding through everything else, the feeling that he's suddenly, inexplicably free. It makes the grief harsher, like salt rubbed in a wound, and it turns the anger from a carefully placed arrow into a grenade, burning everything in reach. He's angry at himself, and at the Inquisitor, and at the Grey Wardens, and at the Iron Bull, and at every fool who let Corypheus get this far.

"Zevran?" someone says tentatively from behind him.

Alistair.

"Yes?" Zevran snaps, barely civil.

"I...thought you might want company."

His anger twists in on itself, much like the rift, but instead of closing, it re-centers on Alistair. He can't say why, but somehow, Alistair is partially to blame for his misery, and he should bleed for it every bit as much as Zevran is.

"Company would be welcome," Zevran says quietly, turning to smile at him, the smile that has pulled in more experienced men than Alistair.

Alistair smiles back, the expression too young for his face, and pain stabs through the center of Zevran's chest. He ignores it, holding his hand out to Alistair as he says, "But perhaps we might enjoy each other's company somewhere more comfortable."

###

It's still dark when Zevran slips out of Alistair's tent, the embers of the Chargers' fire barely glowing through the ash that covers them. The Iron Bull's lieutenant is sitting close to the coals, sewing something in light that should be too dim, and he looks up as Zevran straightens from tying the tent flap.

"The Chief wants to talk to you," Krem says. He stabs his needle down into whatever he's working on and points toward a tent that's larger than the others.

"And yet," Zevran says, mock-thoughtful, "I have no desire to speak with him."

Krem shrugs a shoulder and goes back to his sewing. "Up to you. Never had much luck avoiding him, myself."

There are a number of replies Zevran could make to that, but the longer this conversation lasts, the more likely it is to wake up Alistair. He tips Krem a mocking salute and deliberately walks in the opposite direction from the Iron Bull's tent, though it requires him to make a large loop to return to his own fire. He'll gladly walk a hundred extra miles to make that particular point.

###

In the controlled chaos of cleaning up after the battle, he manages to avoid the Iron Bull for two days, but on the third day, his luck abandons him. He's standing on top of the wall, staring down at the place where the rift was, when he hears footsteps behind him and turns to find the Iron Bull bearing down on him like a chevalier on a rebellious peasant. Zevran waits, ready for a grab or a shove or a shouted diatribe. He is every bit as much a fighter as the Iron Bull, even if his style is completely different, and whether the fight is with words or fists, Zevran has no intention of being bested.

But to his surprise, the Iron Bull comes to a stop just outside of arm's reach. His face is impassive, and his voice is conversational when he says, "I know what you're doing, and it stops now."

Zevran raises a mocking eyebrow. "What am I doing, pray tell?"

The Iron Bull smiles, the same smile as the last time they stood here, full of teeth and the promise of a fight. "It stops _now_."

"I would think it stops when Alistair wants it to stop," Zevran says, linking his hands behind his back so he doesn't touch the ring in his ear.

The Iron Bull doesn't move, but he seems to loom taller even as he continues to smile. "Don't fuck with him. I don't care who fucked up your head, you don't dump your shit on him."

Anger buffers him from the force of the words, and he smiles back, just as toothy, just as ready to fight. "Is he too young to be allowed out without a nursemaid, then? Perhaps I should try your lieutenant, instead."

"Don't fuck with any of my boys." His voice hasn't changed, but Zevran can see the tension gathering in him.

"Oh, my apologies," Zevran says, mock-contrite. "I did not realize you had a say in who any of them fucked."

For no reason Zevran can see, the Iron Bull relaxes, his smile almost real. "They can fuck who they want," he says. "And you can fuck Alistair until you're both too sore to walk, but you stop fucking with his head. Now."

It's just as well he doesn't wait for a response before walking away, because Zevran can't do anything except stare.

###

Once the Iron Bull is gone, all the anger rushes back. It's a cold and calculating anger this time, focused entirely on the Iron Bull and on all the ways in which Zevran might hurt him. There are a number of options, and Zevran considers each one with the kind of deliberation he usually reserves for planning a job.

And as with any job, he does his research, drifting through Adamant and the Inquisition's camp, gathering all the information he can without drawing attention to himself. He asks no direct questions, never says anything to show undue interest in the Iron Bull or his Chargers, but he listens attentively, and by listening, encourages other people to say more.

The Chargers are the Iron Bull's obvious weakness, but Zevran never did care much for the easy target, not least because it's usually the most carefully guarded. He needs another angle of attack, one the Iron Bull won't expect, so that the surprise is more painful than the blow itself. Hurting the Iron Bull is less important than showing that Zevran can find ways to hurt him, and as he sifts through gossip for the occasional grain of truth, he begins to see the outlines of a gap, an empty place in the picture where the Iron Bull has tried to keep one thing private and away from prying eyes.

###

Zevran waits until after dark to set out, picking his way carefully by the light of flickering torches. With much of Adamant in ruins, the Inquisition's advisors have been forced to set up their temporary offices in various inconvenient locations around the fortress. Cullen's is tucked away at the far end of everything, as if he's hoping that the long walk will discourage people from seeking him out with additional work.

By the stacks of paper on his desk when Zevran walks in, the effort hasn't been successful.

Cullen looks up when the door opens, his face twisting with sympathy and grief as soon as he sees Zevran. Before Zevran can speak, Cullen says, "I'm sorry for your loss." The words are said by rote, but the emotion behind them is real. "I know it means little now, but I would have done anything to prevent this."

The words shiver over Zevran's skin, unpleasant and distracting, and he has to bite back a response that would undermine his entire purpose for being here. Better to duck his head a moment, a conscious imitation of Alistair, and let Cullen think him speechless from something other than anger. Because anger is all he feels; the Crows beat everything else out of him decades ago, and he has no desire to reclaim an emotion that would make him weak.

"Thank you," Zevran says quietly. Then inspiration strikes, and he looks up at Cullen. "I know they keep you quite busy, but I..." A carefully timed pause. "...I hoped you might have time for me. To get a drink, perhaps, and talk about..." An unintentional pause this time, the words sticking despite him, and Zevran has to cough to clear his throat.

Cullen nods before he can say anything else, gesturing at the chair on the other side of the desk. "Of course, of course. Sit, please."

Zevran hesitates, telling himself it's deliberate, that he isn't reluctant to come any further into the room. "I don't wish to keep you from your work."

"The work is always here, I'm finding." Cullen's smile is wry. "I think it breeds when I look away."

"That could indeed make things difficult," Zevran agrees, forcing his feet to carry him forward. Not to the chair, though.

Instead, he walks around Cullen's desk to sit on the edge facing him, letting his legs fall open just a little. Cullen's eyes flick down, and then back up, and his pale face flushes very slightly.

Ah, good. This would be so much more difficult if the man was completely unaware of the possibility of sex with someone other than the Iron Bull. Whether he will make the first move is irrelevant, so long as the entire idea isn't foreign to him.

Zevran leans forward, invading just the edges of Cullen's space, and sets to work.

###

What Zevran thought would be the most difficult part of this proves to be the easiest: a few casual touches, a gradual narrowing of the distance between them, and Cullen's eyes are darkening, his body leaning forward in a mirror to Zevran's. It takes perhaps half as long as Zevran expected before he can slide off the desk and into Cullen's lap without worrying about whether the move will be welcome.

Cullen's head tips back as his hands settle on Zevran's hips, and Zevran takes the time to admire the picture he makes. He's an attractive man, someone Zevran might have pursued even if he wasn't a means to an end, but beyond that, there have been flashes of wit and humor sneaking out from behind his mask of seriousness, and Zevran finds him more than a little intriguing. He reminds Zevran a bit of Alistair, though Cullen is more mabari and less puppy.

But Alistair is at the top of the list of people Zevran isn't thinking about right now, so he shuts down that line of thought and bends forward to touch his lips to Cullen's.

The hands on his hips slide down to cup his ass, a show of initiative as surprising as the way Cullen's mouth is already opening. Zevran had expected him to be willing, had hoped he would be eager, but the way Cullen's tongue thrusts into his mouth is more than either. He groans appreciatively, twisting his fingers through Cullen's hair and rolling his hips to press down against the half hard cock under his ass.

Revenge on the Iron Bull is becoming less important by the moment.

Cullen's fingers flex on his ass, tongue exploring his mouth, and Zevran sets to work on the laces of Cullen's trousers, wanting to feel his cock without several layers between them. It isn't an easy task with everything Cullen is wearing, and at last Zevran pulls away to demand, "Must you wear quite so many clothes?"

Cullen laughs, a little breathless. "Had I known this would be happening, I would have been better prepared."

Zevran doesn't want to smile, doesn't want to like him, but his mouth curves anyway. "Well, see that you plan accordingly in the future."

"I'll do my best," Cullen says.

Before Zevran can answer, Cullen's mouth is on his again, hard and demanding, and Zevran gives up talking in favor of getting Cullen out of his clothes. Or at least, getting his clothes out of the way so they can do something more interesting than rut against each other like boys-

Behind him, the door opens, and the Iron Bull says calmly, "I wondered how long it would take you."

###

Of all the things for Zevran to notice, it's Cullen's reaction that holds his attention: the way he tenses when the door opens, then relaxes at the sound of the Iron Bull's voice, then tenses again at whatever he sees on the Iron Bull's face.

For someone his size, the Iron Bull is surprisingly quiet, but Zevran feels the air moving and the shifts in Cullen's body, so that when a large hand clamps down on the back of his neck, he isn't surprised.

"All right, little Crow," the Iron Bull says, sounding almost bored. "You've made your point, and you're better than I gave you credit for." The hand not on Zevran's neck comes up, fingers stroking the curve of Zevran's ear from the point to the lobe, stopping just shy of the ring. "I thought it would take you at least another day to figure it out."

Zevran snorts contemptuously. "Another day? I knew before we left Skyhold."

The Iron Bull doesn't exactly twitch, but he's a little too still, for a little too long. "Of course you did," he murmurs. His finger taps the ring in Zevran's ear, and Zevran barely controls a twitch of his own. "You're good when you're paying attention, aren't you? Too bad you don't always understand what you're seeing."

 _"Your attention was elsewhere,"_ Morrigan says in memory. Zevran shakes it off without moving.

"I think I've understood well enough," he says, letting his head fall back so he can smirk up at the Iron Bull.

"Would someone like to tell me what's going on?" Cullen says, sounding like a man trying to decide if he should be angry.

"As I appear to no longer be welcome," Zevran says, bracing his hands on the back of Cullen's chair, "I think I shall leave the explanation to someone who knows so much more than myself."

He twists out of the Iron Bull's grip and slips sideways, rolling as he hits the ground to give himself enough room to flip to his feet. Before he quite has his balance back, the Iron Bull is there, hand lashing out for his hair, and Zevran barely has enough time to jerk his head away.

The fight doesn't last long, and it ends with Zevran shoved face first against a wall, the rough stone scraping his cheek while the Iron Bull pins him in place. Despite the position, Zevran feels like he's flying, his whole body alive and singing with the fight, and he grins through bloodied lips.

"So our lovely commander is yours?" he asks, as clearly as he can with his face mashed against stone. "And no one else is allowed to touch?"

"He can touch whoever he wants," the Iron Bull says, the full weight of his body resting against Zevran's. "Including you, if you want to fuck him instead of fucking with me. Try again, little Crow."

To Zevran's surprise, he then lets go, stepping back as if he thinks the fight is done. Rather than allow amazement to hold him in place, Zevran spins, lashing out for the metal brace around the Iron Bull's knee. On the other side of the desk, Cullen stares at them with wide eyes, but Zevran doesn't have any attention to spare for him, not when the Iron Bull moves far too fast for someone his size.

It's a different wall this time, but otherwise, this fight ends exactly the same as the last one: with Zevran's face pressed against cold stone while the Iron Bull holds him in place seemingly without effort. The laugh bubbles up out of nowhere, and Zevran doesn't try to fight it.

"I thought the Qunari didn't fuck their friends," he says, grinning.

"They don't," the Iron Bull says. "But since I'm Tal-Vashoth now, that doesn't mean much to me. Try again, little Crow."

This time when the Iron Bull releases him, Zevran is ready, but it doesn't matter. For a third time, he's slammed face-first against stone, and again he wants to laugh. If the pain is supposed to be a deterrent, the Iron Bull doesn't know him nearly as well as he thinks he does.

"Tal-Vashoth," Zevran says, turning as best he can so the words are clear. "And how are you faring, without the Qun to keep you in check?"

The Iron Bull's breath is warm on his face as he leans in. Mouth against Zevran's ear, he murmurs, "If you want me to hurt you, little Crow, you only need to ask."

"Do it, then," Zevran says, reckless and giddy. "If you can."

He expects to be released again, not to have his hand twisted up between his shoulder blades while his feet are kicked out from under him. With the wall in front of him, he doesn't so much fall as slide downward, but the pain in his shoulder is incredible, leaving him breathless.

"Is that all?" he asks on another laugh, because this, this is what he wanted, without ever knowing it, this fight that has nothing of fairness about it, and not even the thin veneer of civilization that blades provide.

Most enemies underestimate how far he can bend, and the Iron Bull is no different. His grip has slackened a little, just enough for Zevran to twist free, but he's barely made it to his feet before the Iron Bull catches him by the hair and pins him to the wall again, one massive shoulder in the center of his back.

"Know why all those skills you're so proud of aren't working today, little Crow?" the Iron Bull asks in his ear.

"I am sure you are about to tell me." He closes his eyes, picturing the room and how the Iron Bull must be standing to hold him like this. If he turns just right...

"They're not working," the Iron Bull says patiently, "because you're not paying attention."

"Am I not?" Zevran asks, wheezing a little as his arm is once again twisted up.

"You're not," the Iron Bull says. "Which seems to be a habit with you, not looking where you should be looking." Zevran tries to twist away again, but the trick doesn't work a second time.

"Or perhaps I am simply not trying," Zevran says helpfully.

The Iron Bull is quiet for a moment, and then he laughs. "I think that's more true than you meant it to be. You really aren't trying, are you?"

Only half listening, Zevran tries to twist away again, with no better success than before.

"And do you know how I know you're not trying?" the Iron Bull asks.

"No," Zevran says, "but I imagine you are about tell me."

Before he knows what's happening, the Iron Bull spins him around and shoves him backward against the wall, his head connecting with the stone hard enough to make lights burst in front of his eyes. His hands are free, but the hand around his throat is big enough to force his head back, and the fingers pressing in under his jaw are firm.

"Because if you were trying," the Iron Bull says, "this wouldn't be so easy."

It's a struggle to breathe, but he'll die before he admits that, and he can't seem to stop grinning. "Or maybe," he forces out, "you are simply so much better than me."

"No," the Iron Bull says, clearly not bothered by the admission. "You're not trying, because this is what you want."

"And you know this how?" Zevran challenges. If he could get a full breath, he would still be laughing.

The Iron Bull's eye narrows, but he looks pleased rather than angry. "You want to play, little Crow? Fine. Let's play a game I know the Crows taught you."

"I do so love a good game," Zevran says.

"I know." The fingers of the Iron Bull's free hand brush Zevran's hair back from his face, surprisingly gentle. "Do you have a watchword you prefer?"

"The Crows are not much for watchwords." Zevran shrugs as best he can from his current position. "We would rather die than break."

The Iron Bull smiles at him, a teacher indulging an over-eager student. "I was breaking Crows for the Ben-Hassrath while House Arainai was still breaking you."

Zevran matches his expression, amused and patronizing. "And do I look broken?"

"Hard to say." The Iron Bull twists a strand of Zevran's hair between his fingers, then tucks it behind his ear for him, his other hand still firm around Zevran's throat. "Looks can be pretty deceiving, I've found."

Before Zevran can decide which of the dozen possible responses he likes best, the Iron Bull flicks the ring in his ear, hard. "You know you don't ever touch it?" he asks casually. "Not even by accident. A pretty big tell, if you know to look for it."

All the laughter dies, burned away by a new surge of anger. Without thinking, Zevran aims a kick for the Iron Bull's groin and grabs for his wrist, driving both thumbs hard between the tendons.

It's a different fight this time, and it ends with the Iron Bull down on his good knee, wheezing from a strike to the throat that Zevran pulled barely in time. Part of him wants to follow through, to wipe away the knowing look in the Iron Bull's eye, but he has just enough control over his temper to step back, to roll his shoulders and smile sharply and say, "It would appear you were correct. I was not trying."

He turns away, a deliberate insult, and strides toward the door. He's halfway through it when the Iron Bull says, "Crow."

Zevran stops without turning. "Bull?"

"I'll give you what you want," he says, sounding far too amused for someone who almost had his throat crushed moments ago, "but you'll have to ask me for it."

There are a hundred things burning in his chest, pushing to get out. He ignores all of them, and says calmly, "You have nothing I want."

He doesn't slam the door on his way out, but only because he refuses to give the Iron Bull the satisfaction.

###

The cleanup of Adamant continues, and Zevran helps where he can, but whether he's hauling bodies or counting swords or training some raw recruit in the best way to use a dagger, the Iron Bull's voice whispers under everything.

_"I'll give you what you want."_

As if he knows what that is. As if he has any idea.

How can he, when Zevran himself doesn't even know?

###

It takes two days before the question is too much for him and he goes looking for the Iron Bull.

The hardest thing about tracking him down is doing so when he's alone, because Zevran is still avoiding Alistair. As large as Adamant is, and as much activity as there is, it hasn't been particularly difficult to avoid one person, but striding into the Chargers' camp isn't exactly an option. Instead, Zevran lurks outside Cullen's office, tucked into the shadows of a convenient chunk of wall where he can sit in relative comfort without being readily seen. It's not the most exciting way to spend an afternoon, but his patience is rewarded just before dusk.

"Bull," he says as he steps from the shadows, deliberately shortening the name to the more familiar version he's heard Cullen and the Chargers use.

"Crow." If Zevran's sudden appearance has startled him, he gives no sign. "Did you want something?"

"You seem to know better than I," Zevran says, tilting his chin up mockingly. "What is it that you think I want?"

"We both know the answer to that," the Iron Bull says, looking bored. "Was there something else?"

Zevran's heart is beating too fast, and he wonders if it's visible at his throat. "And if I ask for it? What will you give me?"

"Are you asking?" the Iron Bull asks.

"Possibly," Zevran says, knowing it's a ridiculous answer even as he says it.

"What's your watchword?"

Zevran blinks. Presses his lips together. Finds a smile from somewhere and puts it on. "When you broke Crows for the Ben-Hassrath, did you ask them for a watchword?"

The Iron Bull shakes his head sadly. "Give me a watchword, little Crow, or let me by. Your choice."

Zevran hesitates, torn between too many possibilities, then steps aside.

###

That armies require discipline is something Zevran knows, but it's also not something he thinks much about in the normal course of a day. During the Blight, he didn't so much fight _with_ the Ferelden army as fight in its general vicinity, and since then, he's never even been that close.

Still, he knows the importance of discipline in any group this large, and so he isn't surprised, the next morning, when he sees a soldier being flogged beside the Inquisitor's tent. Whatever the soldier's crime, it must be significant, because his back is already bloody and the sergeant behind him shows no sign of stopping, the blows falling with steady precision as he counts them off in a clear, calm voice.

It isn't a shock, and yet, Zevran's feet slow anyway. He's seen this kind of punishment more times than anyone here, with the possible exception of the sergeant holding the whip, and he knows the way it feels from both sides. Not that he was whipped like this very often--the Crow masters had no interest in destroying the beauty that made him useful to them--but he remembers it well enough anyway.

He also remembers the ways a skilled master could punish him without leaving scars, and he remembers how the pain could eclipse everything. There was a place where nothing mattered except the next blow, and whether it would fall.

_"I'll give you what you want."_

Zevran tears his eyes away from the now-weeping soldier and continues on his way.

###

It takes five more days before he gives in. Five days of avoiding Alistair, and five nights of lying awake with his hands clenched into fists to keep them away from the ring in his ear, and every time he turns around, he can hear the Iron Bull whispering to him even if no one is nearby at the time.

On the morning of the sixth day, he returns to the Chargers' camp. He can't quite resist the challenge of sneaking into the Iron Bull's tent in broad daylight, with people always nearby, but once inside, he doesn't disturb anything. The tent is larger than most, with enough room that it can be sectioned into two areas: a larger public space, occupied by a table covered in papers, and a smaller private one almost completely taken up by a bedroll.

Zevran doesn't hesitate--he's spent the last week doing nothing but that, and he's sick of it--just strips off his clothes and kneels beside the bedroll. Hands resting on his thighs, he waits, trying to settle his thoughts into the stillness of a night on watch. The memories are crowding in close now, and even the ones from a decade in the past somehow always come around to the green flash of a rift closing.

The tent gets warmer as the sun rises higher, and Zevran's knees begin to ache, but he doesn't move. One of the Crow masters required him to kneel like this for the better part of a day on a handful of occasions, and though his body is now twenty years older and not quite so limber, a single morning is nothing he can't manage. He suspects he won't have to wait more than that.

He's right, but only barely: it's just shy of noon when the tent flap opens and someone comes in. Booted feet cross the tent toward the canvas that sections off the sleeping area, and Zevran imagines he can feel each footstep echoing up through the ground and into his body. His breathing picks up before he calms it, and he has barely enough time to bow his head and lace his fingers together behind his neck before the Iron Bull is there.

The temptation to speak is great, but that isn't what he's here for, so he waits, focused on his breathing, and on the dull ache in his knees and across the tops of his feet from the hard ground.

"Watchword," the Iron Bull says after a long moment.

"Paz," Zevran says immediately, without raising his head.

Another silence, and he can feel the weight of the Iron Bull's gaze. Zevran doesn't look up.

"Paz," the Iron Bull repeats eventually. "Peace."

It's neither question nor order, so Zevran just waits.

The air stirs as the Iron Bull moves, warning Zevran before thick fingers tap his cheek. "Look at me."

He raises his eyes, only tilting his head back far enough to do as ordered.

The Iron Bull studies him thoughtfully, one finger tracing the tattoo across his cheek. "How long have you been here?" he asks.

"Since just before the end of the morning watch."

"All right." The Iron Bull steps back as much as the tiny space will allow. "Stand up."

Zevran unfolds himself smoothly, without betraying the twinges in his back and legs, his fingers still locked together behind his head. Partly to show off and partly to prove he can obey, and even he's not sure which is the stronger motivation.

"Hands down," the Iron Bull says, and then, when Zevran has obeyed, he adds, "Shake them out. Stretch your legs."

"I do not need-"

"Did I ask?" His voice is calm, almost emotionless. "You speak when I ask you a question, or if you need your watchword. Otherwise, I don't want to hear so much as a sound from you. Do you understand?"

Zevran nods, lips pressed tight together.

"Good. Stretch your legs."

The Iron Bull steps out of the sleeping area without waiting to see if his order is obeyed, letting the canvas fall closed again, and though he's out of sight, Zevran doesn't consider doing anything other than what he was told. That doesn't stop him from listening to the sounds from the other side of the tent, trying to figure out what the Iron Bull is doing, but the sounds are so odd that Zevran suspects him of making noise just to make noise, to keep Zevran guessing.

When the Iron Bull returns, he carries a leather flask that sloshes as he holds it out to Zevran. "Drink. All of it."

It's half full of water that tastes faintly of elfroot, pleasantly astringent without making his tongue try to curl into itself, and he drains it in a few quick swallows. The Iron Bull takes it back, shoving the wooden stopper into place as he says, "Kneel. The way you were before I came in."

That almost makes Zevran smile, but he keeps his face blank and returns to his knees, hands curled loosely on his thighs instead of locked behind his neck.

"Stay," the Iron Bull says, as if Zevran is a dog.

Part of him hates it, and part of him strains toward it, needing that quiet place where he isn't responsible for anything except doing as he's told to do, where he's nothing except what he's told to be.

###

The Iron Bull leaves him there most of the day, on his knees in the sleeping area with the canvas shutting him off from the rest of the tent. People come and go, bringing news and complaints and gossip and requisitions, and the Iron Bull talks and jokes and issues orders as if Zevran isn't only a few feet away.

It's frustrating at first, a barrage of voices and conversations pulling him out of his head every other breath. He can't shut them out and he can't participate and he's almost grinding his teeth the first time the Iron Bull comes back to check on him.

Or he is, until he sees the Iron Bull's face and the raised eyebrow that says how transparent he is. Zevran smiles rather than snarling and makes a point of settling his body, as if to say, "I can do this as long as you can."

The Iron Bull inclines his head wordlessly, but Zevran can hear the challenge: "Prove it."

###

The Iron Bull comes back three times after that, and issues the same orders each time.

Stand.

Stretch.

Drink this.

Kneel.

And then he goes away again, back to his work while Zevran waits and begins to forget that there's anything beyond grey canvas and the voices passing by outside it.

###

It's almost dark before the Iron Bull comes back for the last time. Zevran's knees and ankles are throbbing, sweat has dried in a variety of uncomfortable places, and his stomach and bladder ache for entirely opposite reasons.

The Iron Bull isn't alone this time, Cullen following on his heels, and the sight of another face is an almost physical shock after an entire day of disembodied voices, even if both faces are impassive. Whatever he has or hasn't been told, Cullen doesn't blink when his eyes fall on Zevran.

"Stand," the Iron Bull says, and Zevran does, a little slower than he was the first time. He knows what's coming next, but he waits for the order anyway, doesn't move until he receives a nod and permission.

While he's stretching out his legs, the Iron Bull steps back. "When you're done, go with Cullen."

No explanation given, no questions allowed. The Iron Bull doesn't even wait for acknowledgement before slipping back through the curtain. By the sound of his footsteps, he's left the tent entirely, though Zevran wouldn't be prepared to bet any significant amount of coin on that.

"Get dressed," Cullen says, his tone almost a pitch-perfect imitation of the Iron Bull's: neither friendly nor unfriendly, but heavily weighted with the expectation of immediate obedience.

Or maybe "imitation" isn't the right word to describe his voice, with its implication of being somehow less, an inadequate stand-in for the real thing, because nothing about Cullen is tentative or uncertain. He's not as relaxed as the Iron Bull, but it isn't the kind of tension Zevran associates with anxiety; this is excitement, eagerness, the kind of tension Zevran has seen in a thousand warriors before a battle, that he's felt himself in that heartbeat before he springs from the shadows.

Zevran gets dressed.

###

The Chargers' camp is empty when Zevran emerges from the tent, not even the Iron Bull in sight, but Cullen gives him no time to think about that. "Follow," he says, striding briskly away. He doesn't look back to see if Zevran is behind him, as if Zevran's presence or absence means little to him.

Zevran follows, exactly like the well-trained dog that Cullen is acting like he is.

They make two stops, at the latrine and at the kitchen that serves the Inquisitor, and the smell of both makes Zevran queasy. He makes no complaint, and they don't linger at either, arriving at Cullen's office while there's still just enough light to see by, Cullen carrying a bundle from the kitchen and Zevran trailing behind.

Inside, Cullen drops the bar on the door with a thump, looking momentarily satisfied at the noise it makes. "Take off your clothes and put them there," he points to a stool in one corner of the room, "then you stand there," and his finger moves to the space directly in front of his desk. A desk that's now conspicuously free of papers.

Other things have changed in the room as well, and the most noticeable is the short bench to his left. It's plain wood, the kind any barracks' mess hall might have, and turned perpendicular to the wall.

Zevran's heart is beating faster than the walk can account for, and he wonders what, exactly, Cullen and the Iron Bull are planning. Or is it only Cullen, now? Has he been handed off like an unwanted pet, or will the Iron Bull return at some point?

And does it really matter, when Cullen carries himself with every bit as much confidence as the Iron Bull, with the same air of command under everything he says?

Cullen moves around the room, leaving the food on his desk and lighting lamps without once glancing in Zevran's direction, and for the second time today, Zevran strips out of his clothes. His skin feels gritty where the sweat has dried, and his legs are dusty from kneeling on the ground, but he ignores the urge to brush himself off and goes to stand where Cullen directed.

His eyes follow Cullen instinctively, as best he can without moving his head, until Cullen snaps, "Eyes front," and Zevran's gaze fixes itself on the wall behind the desk. Shutting away the part of him that needs to keep track of everything is difficult, and while Zevran is concentrating on that, Cullen disappears through the door in the far wall. Zevran didn't investigate it last time, but he assumes it leads to another chamber, possibly where Cullen sleeps.

When Cullen returns, he's carrying--of all things--a bucket of water and a small clay pot, with a rough towel thrown over one shoulder. He sets the bucket down beside Zevran, and the other items on his desk, then proceeds to divest himself of coat and armor and shirt. Dressed only in boots and breeches, he's quite a sight, muscles shifting under pale skin dusted lightly with golden hair.

Given that Zevran can still clearly recall the way it felt to straddle Cullen's lap with a hard cock grinding against his ass, Cullen shirtless should stir at least a bit of lust, but all Zevran can feel right now is a distant, aesthetic appreciation. He's beautiful. Perhaps in a way most people wouldn't consider beautiful, but he is, in the same way that a well-made knife is beautiful: perfectly suited to its purpose, without the need for flashy adornments.

Zevran wants to touch, but then, he's always been drawn to things that could hurt him.

###

Cullen washes him with brisk efficiency, his hands exactly as professional while washing Zevran's cock as while scrubbing the dirt from beneath his fingernails. This is a chore; not a difficult one, perhaps, but still a chore, not something to be enjoyed or savored.

The chore accomplished, Cullen folds a blanket into a neat square, lays it on the floor beside his desk, and says "kneel" in the same voice he's used the entire time. Skin still a little damp, Zevran kneels, sitting back on his heels with his hands resting on his thighs.

"Hands behind your head," Cullen says without looking at him, as if he doesn't need to check to know that Zevran will obey.

It's a deceptively easy position, a pose anyone might strike a dozen times a day without thinking twice. Holding it, though, becomes uncomfortable quickly, and moves from there to painful, and then to excruciating. His shoulders ache, his neck burns, and his fingers tingle from being held above his heart for too long.

Technically, Cullen's instructions only required him to put his hands behind his head. He could relax his arms, let his elbows swing forward to frame his face, but he knows that isn't what Cullen meant, and he knows that if he were to try it, Cullen would correct him.

He doesn't want to be corrected, and so he keeps his elbows pointed straight out, even as the pain begins to move down his back and up across his skull.

Though it is tempting to relax a little, since Cullen appears to have forgotten he's there. The food has been spread out across the desk, and a small stack of papers has appeared from somewhere, and Cullen eats absently while he reads. Zevran might as well be a painting hung on the wall. Yet he's not a painting, not anything to be admired for its beauty. The way Cullen treats him, he might as well be a chair, or a stool: something to be noticed when it's useful and ignored when it isn't. He is a cuchillo again. A knife. An instrument of someone else's will.

He is useful, and when he isn't useful, he is nothing, and the peace in that is worth the burning in his arms and the ache in his neck.

###

By the time someone knocks on the door, Zevran's entire body is shaking with the effort to maintain his position. Occasional pauses to fetch this or perform that menial task are just enough to tease him with the possibility of relief, right up until Cullen once again orders him to his knees. Even the muscles in his ass are tight with the strain, and his jaw has been clenched for so long he isn't sure he could open his mouth even if he wanted to.

The knock is forceful, loud enough in the silence to startle Zevran, but Cullen doesn't even look up as he says, "Let him in."

It occurs to Zevran to wonder what any of them will do if it isn't the Iron Bull on the other side of the door, but that doesn't slow him down. At least, not any more than the stiffness currently invading his joints.

What they might have done if it wasn't the Iron Bull is irrelevant: Zevran opens the door to find him alone, carrying a coil of rope and a cloth-wrapped bundle that rattles faintly when he moves.

"Lay them out," the Iron Bull says to Zevran as he hands over the bundle, and Zevran does, emptying the bag one item at a time until the top of Cullen's desk is no longer covered in food and papers.

Instead, there is a neat row of whips, of various sizes and materials, from a simple drover's whip to a knout with iron hooks at the end of each tail. There's also a cane, still damp from being soaked in water, and though Zevran is careful not to spend more time on it than on any of the others, his fingers feel wet long after he's moved on.

"All right, little Crow," the Iron Bull says when Zevran is finished laying them out. "Pick one. Just one."

Zevran hesitates, dragged out of the pleasant fog of nothingness that's had hold of him for most of the day. _"Let's play a game I know the Crows taught you,"_ the Iron Bull said last time they were here, but there are so many games, and some of them are...not pleasant.

"No tricks," the Iron Bull says gently. It's the first hint of emotion he's shown all day, and it's almost harder to deal with than the memories. "Pick the one you want to pick. I promise it's that simple."

Still Zevran hesitates, because the worst games always started with a declaration that no one would be playing games with him this time. His mind is working again, analyzing the possible outcomes of each choice he could make, and then analyzing the possible outcomes of each choice if he makes it eagerly, or reluctantly, or without any sign of emotion.

"Pick one," the Iron Bull says again, this time in the voice of a commander who's had enough of a new recruit dithering over the choice of a practice blade.

Zevran deliberately closes off the thoughts spinning in his head and touches the cane.

###

He can feel his pulse in his throat and the palms of his hands as the Iron Bull picks up the cane and gives it an experimental swing. Zevran doesn't know which he fears more: that this really is a trick, or that the Iron Bull will be as good as his word.

"Sit," Cullen says, and Zevran has to look around to find him, appalled at how completely he shut out the rest of the world when the Iron Bull picked up the cane.

Cullen is straddling the short bench Zevran noticed earlier, his back against the wall as he points to the space between his legs, his expression saying clearly that he won't repeat himself. For once, Zevran has no interest in pushing back, and he crosses the room to let Cullen arrange their bodies, Zevran's back against his stomach and Zevran's head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.

"Hands behind your head," Cullen says, and once Zevran has done it, Cullen wraps an arm around him, pinning him in place with his hands trapped between them.

Before Zevran has quite adapted to the position, Cullen slouches down, forcing Zevran to recline awkwardly, his legs spreading wide to help him keep his balance. Even with Cullen's arm around him, he feel precarious, made dizzy by a lack of sleep and food. It doesn't help his balance when the Iron Bull rearranges his legs, forcing his feet back so the tops rest on the cross-brace that runs under bench before tying his ankles together.

That done, the Iron Bull clears off the desk, which means that the most popular game the Crow masters liked to play--that of giving him the appearance of a choice only to do the opposite of whatever he asked for--is no longer an option. Of course, the Crows were never above games within games, and the whips that have been so carefully put away can be taken out again. Or perhaps-

The Iron Bull flicks his wrist and the cane cuts through the air with a distinctive hiss, catching Zevran's attention though it isn't anywhere near him. "Eyes on me, little Crow. I'm not doing anything if you're not looking at me."

Not a difficult order to follow, not so long as he's holding that cane.

Cullen's gauntleted hand curling protectively over his cock is the last warning Zevran gets before the cane comes down across the front of his thighs. It's all noise at first, his ears telling him he's been hit before his skin does, in that moment when his body is still in shock. Then comes the sting, a sharp line as if he's been cut open with a knife made of ice, and his fingers try to curl despite being locked together.

The Iron Bull waits, the tip of the cane stroking lightly over Zevran's knee, and Zevran realizes he's looked down, his eyes on the red lines appearing on his skin. It's an effort, but he forces his gaze back up.

The cane comes down again, too fast for Zevran to even tense, the ice of the second blow mingling with the spreading heat from the first. He keeps his eyes up this time, and the third blow comes before the second has even started to warm. On the fourth, his eyes slip away again, down to look at the alternating lines of red and white as the cold begins to burn.

The tip of the cane scrapes over the marks, and Zevran jerks his head back up, wondering what his disobedience might earn him. The Iron Bull's face gives no hint, as blank as ever, and the next blow is no harder or softer than the ones before.

Two more follow before Zevran loses control, jerking against the ropes and Cullen's grip as his hands slide halfway out from behind his head. He almost chokes on the need to shout, or at least curse, but that much control he keeps: he remembers the Iron Bull's command from this morning, to make no sound that isn't the watchword. There's a moment where he can't breathe, his throat locked tight to prevent any noise from escaping, and then he sags back against Cullen, dragging in air through his nose. It feels like the danger has passed, but he doesn't dare open his mouth even as his lungs protest.

His eyes slid closed somewhere in the struggle, and he forces them open, blinking until he can bring the Iron Bull into focus. He's only just managed it when the next blow lands, directly over the first one.

He jerks harder this time, accidentally grinding his balls against the hand shielding them from the cane. That's a different kind of pain, one he doesn't want, and he flinches back from it, pressing closer to Cullen's chest. Normally he has more control than this, but just now, the best he can do is not scream.

It takes longer to get his eyes open this time, and with every ragged breath, he expects the cane to fall again. It's very much there, tapping and stroking and occasionally scratching, but it does nothing more painful than cut lightly across the existing marks.

Right up until he opens his eyes and raises them to the Iron Bull, and then there's another strike, high on his thigh, and a belated understanding finally dawns.

###

He doesn't know how long it lasts. When his eyes are on the Iron Bull, blows fall until he looks away and buys himself a respite. How long or brief it is depends on him, because the Iron Bull does exactly as he said: the cane only falls when Zevran is looking at him. In the pauses between, the cane is always there, threat and promise, tracing lines on his skin until he can bring himself to look up again, but there's never a punishment for looking away.

It makes a certain amount of sense, really. He had to ask for this in the first place. It's no surprise he has to ask for each blow, moment by moment, until it feels like the ice has cut him open, and the heat burned up everything inside him.

###

It might be the twentieth blow, or it might be the fiftieth, but at some point, Zevran can't open his eyes again. He's not unconscious, not exactly, but he's also not entirely aware, not when he feels like he's floating, rocked by each slow wave of pain. His thighs burn from his knees almost to his hips, and he's once again covered in sweat, and he wants to stay like this forever, empty of anything except the pain.

Eventually the arm around his chest relaxes a little, Cullen still holding him upright but no longer restraining him, as Bull's hands tug gently on Zevran's wrists. "You can let go now," he says quietly.

He means Zevran's tight grip on his own fingers--even in his current state, Zevran knows that--but the words have echoes as they work their way through the haze of pain to the part of his mind that can actually process them. The grip on his wrists doesn't change, and eventually, Zevran understands what he's supposed to do.

As soon as Zevran unknots his fingers, Bull guides his hands down to rest on Cullen's thighs. The texture of Cullen's trousers is more intriguing than it should be, the slubs in the rough linen taking all of Zevran's attention. He flexes his fingers just to feel the way the fabric wrinkles, and then smoothes it out against the damp heat of Cullen's thigh while Bull unties his ankles.

A pause, then the sound of a chair scraping over the floor, and then a soft sigh as Bull sits. "All right, little Crow," he says, his voice very close. Fingers touch the ring in Zevran's ear, pinching it between thumb and forefinger to tug lightly. "Tell me about him."

So Zevran does.

###

There are a hundred stories, and Zevran has told them so often he could recite them even in this half-dream state. He could talk about the failed ambush and his own bemusement at a man who would flirt with the assassin sent to kill him. Or he could tell the story of the battle for Denerim, a stirring tale guaranteed to earn him free drinks in any Fereldan tavern, even a decade later.

Instead, he tells the one story he's never told, though there were enough people present that his account has hardly been missed. The tales of that Landsmeet will live as long tales of the Fifth Blight, Zevran doesn't doubt. Over the years, he's heard so many different versions he would never know the truth if he hadn't been there, a horrified bystander as everything was turned upside down in a blink. Had he known what Riordan would propose, he would have left the man to rot in Howe's dungeon without a backward glance.

"Was it Riordan's fault?" Bull asks, idly curious.

Zevran starts to answer "yes!" then hesitates, starts to answer "no!" and hesitates again. He's very aware of Cullen behind him, of the worship in Cullen's voice when he talked about the "Hero of Ferelden."

"Was it Riordan's fault your 'Hero'," Bull puts a touch of mockery on the word, "wasn't all that heroic?"

Cullen twitches, and Bull's hand strokes down his thigh. "Sorry, kadan," he murmurs. "But he wasn't."

"I know," Cullen says, and he sounds more amused than anything. "It's just odd to hear someone say it aloud."

"He saved my life," Zevran says, unsettled again. Another habit from ten years in the past, this excuse that he pulls out for himself more than for anyone else, that he's only just now recognizing as an excuse instead of a reason.

"He _spared_ your life," Bull corrects.

Zevran frowns, his thoughts still slow but beginning to pick up speed once more. "I fail to see the difference."

"I know." His hand moves from Cullen's thigh to Zevran's, pressing down over the marks hard enough to make Zevran gasp. "Let it go for tonight, little Crow."

But Zevran can't. "He saved my life," he says again, more emphatically, even as the pain in his legs tries to obliterate everything else.

"All right," Bull says. "Say he did. How much forgiveness does that buy? How many betrayals would you have been expected to swallow without complaint?"

Rather than answer, Zevran runs a finger along one of the marks left by the cane, letting the physical pain soothe the emotional one. "It no longer matters," he says. "Death clears all debts, don't they say?"

"They're full of shit," Bull says. "Especially in this case."

Zevran blinks at him, and he feels Cullen's surprise, too. Bull looks at them and smiles crookedly. "If he'd died a year ago, or a year from now, it wouldn't be so hard, would it?" he asks, his eye on Zevran. "But now you're caught between the two."

Between mourning the death of the man he loved, and reveling in the death of the man who had taken every possible advantage of it. Between grief, and that thin thread of triumph.

Caught. Yes.

Though perhaps not quite so badly as he'd thought.

###

The sky is only just beginning to turn light when he leaves Cullen's office, which seems impossible, and Zevran almost turns around to ask if he's somehow misplaced an entire day. His stomach certainly feels like he has, the way it's gnawing viciously at his spine, but he heard the bar drop into place behind him, and he has no interest in disturbing whatever private moment they can steal before the day truly begins.

His thighs burn with each step, the cane's marks still fresh and aching. That had nearly been a fight all on its own, whether Zevran would be allowed to leave with his skin still broken open, a fight Cullen had won simply by laying his hand on Bull's arm. The look he'd given Zevran had said plainly, "Don't make me regret this."

Zevran has no desire to repay any of what he's been given with that kind of childishness. This isn't the first time he's felt a cane, and he knows how to care for the marks to ensure they don't mortify. Right now, he just...needs the reminder that the pain provides.

Only the dead feel nothing.

###

Startling Alistair awake, it turns out, is nearly as bad an idea as doing the same to Zevran. Which Zevran discovers the hard way when he tries to slip into Alistair's tent and almost gets punched for his troubles.

"Zevran?" Alistair asks, sleepy and confused. "Why're you here?"

"Oh, well," Zevran says with an airy wave, "so much sneaking out of your bed, I thought I might try sneaking back in, to see if the result was more to my liking." He scowls at Alistair with exaggerated fierceness. "Though if this is how you will greet me, I think I have already found my answer."

"Asshole," Alistair mutters, but he's smiling, and somehow in the process of lying down again, he hooks an arm around Zevran to tumble both of them into the bedroll. "You would have stabbed me," he adds, the words mumbled into Zevran's hair.

"A vile slander," Zevran says, mock offended.

Alistair snorts. "I think you did stab me, once."

"It was only a very mild stabbing," Zevran says. "You hardly noticed, I'm sure."

Alistair's shoulders shake with silent laughter. "Oh, well, that's all right then."

"Of course it is," Zevran says, aware of all the things he's done to Alistair over the last few weeks that are very much not all right. That he's been forgiven is another gift, as undeserved as the peace Bull and Cullen gave him.

But whether it's deserved or not, it's his, and he doesn't intend to waste it.

###

They sleep a while, and talk a while, and sleep some more, ignoring the sound of the camp stirring around them. It's odd to sleep beside another person, something Zevran has limited experience with, and once he's no longer so tired he's dizzy, it's different enough to keep him from sinking into deep sleep.

The hunger doesn't help, and eventually, Zevran uses that as his excuse to slip out of the tent. He wakes Alistair first, though, and he leaves the largest of his knives behind, silent promise that he's coming back.

Most of the Chargers are elsewhere by now, but the Iron Bull is sitting by the fire with a cup of something hot in his hands. He raises it in greeting when their eyes meet, and Zevran takes that as invitation to sit beside him.

"Sleep all right?" the Iron Bull asks.

Zevran considers lying, then smiles ruefully. "It is new to me, sleeping beside someone."

The Iron Bull smiles into his mug. "You trust him, but your body remembers, doesn't it? All those times you trusted someone and woke up with their knife at your throat."

 _Oh yes,_ Zevran thinks but doesn't say.

The Iron Bull's knee bumps lightly against his. "I said stop fucking with his head. I didn't say you had to be beside him every moment, waking or sleeping." He takes a sip from his mug. "There's nothing wrong with leaving after, so long as you're not sneaking out."

Zevran shrugs easily. "I know. But..." He pauses, trying to find the right words. "Old habits can be broken, with enough work. I find I look forward to breaking this one, even if it costs me a little sleep in the mean time."

"Fair enough," the Iron Bull says. Without taking his hands from around his mug, he points across the fire to where several burlap sacks lean against a makeshift table. "It's probably stale by now, but we've got some bread in there, if you want it."

Zevran does. It's easy to forget his body sometimes, when he's spent so many years learning to push past the limits it tries to impose, but now that he's been reminded, he can feel the weakness in his muscles after more than a day without food.

The bread isn't too stale, and there's a flask tucked inside the bag with it. Zevran has had many worse breakfasts in his life, and he eats slowly, savoring every bite as if it were a fine pastry from some Orlesian bakery.

A runner arrives while he's still eating, carrying a message for the Iron Bull, and Zevran reads over his shoulder without shame or hesitation. It's nothing out of the ordinary, just a brief note from Cullen with orders for the Chargers, but it reminds Zevran of something he wanted to say before.

Of course, when he'd originally planned to say it, the words were a knife, meant to stab where the Iron Bull was least expecting. He softens them now, makes them a question rather than a statement.

"Does he know why you became Tal-Vashoth?" A flick of his finger indicates Cullen's note.

The Iron Bull doesn't twitch, but there's that stillness again, that half a heartbeat while he chooses the right expression to wear. "I wasn't going to let my boys die. Not like that."

"Ah," Zevran says. "I see the Ben-Hassrath also believe that the best lie is at least half truth."

"And you know the other half, do you?" the Iron Bull asks, sounding amused.

" _I_ do," Zevran says. He stretches out his feet, feeling the marks from the cane pull beautifully. "Does our lovely commander?"

The Iron Bull laughs, a low rumble that hums in Zevran's chest. "Are you going to tell him?"

"No," Zevran says, though of course that had been his original plan, when he had looked at Cullen and seen only a weapon to be used against the Iron Bull. "But you should."

"Probably," the Iron Bull agrees. He sips from his mug, and Zevran can feel the weight of his regard, though his eye is still staring into the middle distance.

They're both thinking the same thing, Zevran knows: it's never that easy, not for people like them. He tears off a piece of bread and eats it slowly, letting the stale crust turn soft on his tongue. "Old habits," he finally says aloud, not quite an answer to those unspoken words.

"Yes." The corner of the Iron Bull's mouth turns up in a faint smile. "I hear it's a lot of work to break them."

"I had heard something similar myself," Zevran says. He picks a chunk from the center of the loaf, rolling it into a ball between his fingers. "And why would anyone want to spend such effort on something so pointless?"

The Iron Bull snorts. "Go to bed, Crow."

###

He goes back to Alistair's tent instead, though he knows it means he won't sleep. His stomach is full, and his body aches pleasantly, and there are a number of other things they can do in a tent when most of the camp is elsewhere.

Alistair is awake, and it's impossible to miss the way he relaxes when he sees Zevran. It hurts, but then, so do the marks on his legs.

"Are you hungry?" Zevran asks, holding up the half loaf of bread remaining from his own breakfast. "I promise that what it lacks in quality it makes up for in quantity."

That gets him a smile as Alistair pushes himself up to a sitting position. "Hard to say no, when you make it sound so delicious."

"It is but one of my many skills," Zevran says, handing over the bread and the flask of water. "Convincing you that terrible ideas are not so bad as they seem."

It was supposed to be a joke, but it's too serious by the time the words are out.

Alistair looks down at the loaf, turning it over in his hands like it's a puzzle. "You're not a terrible idea," he says quietly.

"I am," Zevran says, and when Alistair scowls, he makes himself add, "But I am trying to be less terrible."

"I'm...not so great, either," Alistair says without looking up.

Zevran privately disagrees, but he says, "Then we can each work on being not-terrible, yes? But after breakfast." He points at the loaf of bread and makes a little circling motion with his finger. "Which you are not eating."

"You're as bad as Bull," Alistair mutters, ripping off a large piece of bread and waving it at Zevran pointedly. "He's always shoving food at me."

Given how thin Alistair is, Zevran is not in the least surprised. "Perhaps between us, we might fatten you up. Now eat."

Alistair makes a face at him, so much like his younger self that Zevran smiles, but he does start to eat, and after he's done, Zevran gets his help checking the marks left by the cane. Not because he needs help, but because he wants this out in the open between them. If it will be a problem, better to know now than later.

There's a brief flash of surprise when Zevran strips down, but no shock or horror. Mostly, Alistair looks thoughtful, and he asks only, "You're all right?"

Zevran watches his fingers stroke a gentle arc at the edge of the bruising and thinks again of all the ways in which things are not all right.

"I am not terrible," he says at last, and Alistair smiles.


End file.
